


Do you know what love is?

by Maxs_Musings



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29457510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maxs_Musings/pseuds/Maxs_Musings
Summary: As we know in the world of espionage, all is not as it seems. How did Ash come to have Clay?  Why did he spend his formative years in Africa?  And who were his grandparents? What about mom?  And what does any of this have to do with how Clay and Bravo have parted ways?  Or have they?
Comments: 20
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: Greetings and Salutations Readers! Thank you for joining me on this mission with Bravo. I acknowledge I will make mistakes; questionable choices and often times have a funny way of speaking. I will do my level best to stay true to the characters and information provided to us regarding their backgrounds and histories, that being said...

“Do you know what love is?  
I’ll tell you: it is whatever you can still betray.”  
~ John le Carré

November 15, 1985 ~ Gadsby’s Tavern ~ Alexandra, VA

He had no earthy idea why he had been chosen for this assignment. Well, maybe he did. Maybe it was because he was socially awkward, not strikingly handsome (not even passably if you listen to the boys,) or maybe it was because he could blend into the background. Whatever the reason, he was here and uncomfortable as all hell.

The man in the white blazer at the GAP store assured him this look would identify him as a laidback, boring and humdrum man while still providing an “air of sophistication.” The special warfare operator wasn’t sure if he wanted to have an air of sophistication. 

The newly returned from Tehran Seal bruised fingers absently pulled at the yellow tie hanging around his neck as if it was a noose slowly working to squeeze the life out of him. To late now he grimaced as he yanked harder on the single knot trying to undue at least in part some of this sophistication.

His sunken and penetrating brown eyes tracked the woman in red the moment she stepped through the door in her stark white high heals. The five foot ten man felt his heart rate increase as he continued his recon watching as she glided across the room. The clonus in his neck beat in tune with the tintibulation of the bells safely hidden behind the zipper of his newly purchased overly starched faded jeans. 

Sweet Mary in the Manager she was a vision this woman he had been sent to meet. Sent to meet because he was boring, humdrum unassuming Ashland Kane Spenser. He ran a hand through his unruly strawberry brown curls before returning it to his side. 

The dress dipped behind several men who were gathered in a tight circle as if they were around the campfire, yet the only fire he could feel raging in the whole building was that beneath the dove gray sweater vest that felt heavy against his chest. Who knew the GAP sold battle rattle? 

The twenty three year old brought the darkened glass tumbler in his discreetly wrapped left hand to his chapped lips welcoming the burn of the Alfred Lamb’s Navy Rum as it crashed in waves and welter down his suddenly dry throat.

Untamed curls clouded his eyes as he searched for any sign of the red dress and the legs peeking out beneath it. Without a blink he shook his head to clear the obstruction from his view master. The only red presently available to his sightline was the rouge of the senator’s cheeks. 

The gentleman bowed his head; he had missed the clandestine meet. He turned back towards the bar to return his now empty glass with a sigh. They should have sent Eric he was much better at this cloak and dagger what not than he. Or Adam, ladies gravitated to Adam like a jam to a jellyroll.

Ashland shrugged into his military issue pea coat grateful to be at least in part a uniform his was comfortable with. It was as he was tying the newly knitted heavy wool scarf courtesy of his mom and the diplomatic post that he felt more than saw the presence behind him. 

Slowly without any need for urgency he turned his body falling into a fighter’s stance as he brought his eyes to his would be attacker. 

“I believe you have been looking for me,” the woman in the red dress spoke confidently with an alluring accent that dripped with sophistication (maybe that man at the GAP was onto something.) 

When she gave one of those polite coughs and swept the loosed blond hair back into her chignon the man in the winter wear realized his mind had wandered. He let out a practiced sniper breath and a smile filled with teeth a dentist would place on the brochure.

Her well-manicured eyebrows arched slightly as she watched the bland as unsalted butter man control his breathing. She continued her observation with a well-honed silly little grin. The lady in red knew he was drinking her in as if she were the first drop of water in the desert.

The special warfare operator took his time bringing his appreciative gaze from her mile long legs to her heart shaped face. The crimson of her lipstick only enhanced the startling blue eyes that locked on his face akin to a Steyr HS50 sniper riffle.

Somehow in that moment the career military man knew that the vision of beauty and espionage before him would be either his downfall or his salvation. It wouldn’t be until decades later that he would realize she was a bit of both.

“Yes ma’am I have.”

A/N: Don’t worry this story will be all about the young Mr. Spenser and his ragtag group of brothers. Still without Ash there would be no Clay. While I agree Ash can be a douchebag ignoramus dumb butt head. I can’t bring myself to think he is all evil. So I set about to tell the story of how Ash came to have Clay. As we know in the world of espionage, all is not as it seems.


	2. We have all lost something along the way

A/N: MAJOR CHARACTER CHANGE: I want y’all to know I tried writing Cerberus as a boy. I really did. In the end I just couldn’t do it. SHE has no boy parts and we all know Dita is a girl. So I most humbly and sincerely apologize up front if taking this liberty upsets people.

A/N 2: Also. Please be advised, I am NOT a medical professional. I tried my very best to make all the brokenness sound plausible. I accept that it might not be. Please feel to reach out and correct me if I have egregiously erred, it is not my intention to do wrong.

TRIGGER WARNING/READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED: This chapter may not be suitable for all audiences. This chapter contains adult language and mild violence.

“We have all lost something along the way.”  
~ Po Bronson, Why do I love these people?

February 7, 2020 ~ Dam Neck Fleet Training Center ~ 6:25PM

“Listen Blond Judas,” the man in the faded orange University of Texas Longhorns baseball hat with the bleach mark along the rim (courtesy of his submarine sojourn and the waterboys attempting to clean it as a peace offering for his literal pipe hitting on their underwater coffin) gritted out through clenched teeth. 

The barrel chested country boy’s face squinched into a feral rage that would scare even a hornets nest back home in Austin. There was an undercurrent of barley contained violence fustigating in the air about the forty year old and while it might have seen fit to strike terror into the hearts of the winged insects of sting. The spittle and fire raging forth from the Bravo breacher did not have the same desired effect on the sniper in front of him.

Without pausing to assess the state of his brother’s affairs Clay elevated his hand towards the Texan’s shoulder thinking it in some small part might be a way to bridge the chasm between them. Percival Grayson Quinn, otherwise known as Sonny (or Peaches) was having none of that peace, love and Zen bullshit the young Jedi (as he was so found of calling Clay) was all about.

Instead the pugilist meted out the most insensate punch of his four decades on earth. The near jaw breaking hit rattled the unsuspecting recipient with such unbridled force that Clay looked like a bobble head set to lose his bobble. 

The conclave of Seals affront their cages were stunned near to the point of speechlessness. Not because Sonny had tried to break their youngest member as if he were nothing more than a glass trinket on the discount shelf. No because he committed the grievous sin of starting without them. 

“Listen Clay, I ain’t your friend, I ain’t your brother and the next time I see ya, I might just reckon to kill ya.” 

Sonny’s words were uttered with such blatant odium that not a single member of Bravo doubted the efficacy of the promise offered. Least of all the man sitting on the cold and dingy tile that reeked of decades of blood, sweat and tears (how fortuitous that he was going to add his own to the pile) staring at his former best friend more then a little dazed and most clearly heartbroken.

Observing the weeble wobble had actually succeeded in falling down and wanting to be rid of the piece of shit toxin taking up space on the floor the leader of the violent nomads stalked over to the wounded prey. Master Chief Jason Hayes let out a centering breath as he took in the way the B.U.B’s hand spasmed. 

Absently Jason wondered if Sonny had succeeded in breaking the kids jaw. ‘Whatever,’ Jason shrugged. At least then those who still had to be around him would be treated to some peace and quiet. Clay had never ever met a subject he didn’t have a question (or often times an answer about.) 

The thirty two year olds oft discussed by the ladies (and that one man who had been outside Harrington’s office sometime back) ocean blues eyes they wanted to swim in were at the present bouncing around like a ping pong with a bee sting in their search for any sign no matter how minute of love that would have at one time reigned on the face of Bravo Three. Bravo One let go a chuckle at such a bêtise hope. 

The air was heavy with suspended enmity as the team leader yanked the blond (whose curls had given up the fight to bounce and instead were plastered against his flushed face) whelp up off the floor with an unsettling slightly maniacal clown at the circus smile. The avid hockey player could feel his grin widen like the Mississippi River as he took in the way Clay fought a losing battle with stoicism. Jason would give the kid this, he wasn’t always as stupid as the hair would suggest.

The Philadelphians Brobdingnagian fingers curled into the forest green lapels of the soon to be former Bravo Six’s Kuiu Insulated Snap Shirt. Jason could hear the fabric straining against the dead weight of the Liberian raised operator. He could feel the little shits heart palpitating as if he had run the O Course in full battle rattle.

Sweat was pouring down the thirty two year olds face dripping off his swelling like an over-inflated balloon chin and rolling onto Jason’s hands. The fury of a thousand and one suns raged through six foot one recently graying at the temples Pennsylvania native as he searched the face of the one hundred and eighty five-pound sack of shit in his now sticky grip. (What he was searching for he didn’t exactly know, the kid was the one who ALWAYS had answers for everything, wasn’t that why Sonny called him Wonder Boy?) 

With a calm as a spring day demeanor Jason made sure he and the polyglot were nose to nose. The dead weight lifter wasn’t all together sure he wouldn’t snap the neck of the ragdoll currently suspended in the air like a limp marionette. The forty four year old barely registered the younger man’s attempt at sniper breathing. He did however note the icing on the cake traces of true fear seeping across the plains and valleys of the blonds bruised and contused countenance. The effort to care was simply too much for him to bother with.

As if discussing the mundane topic of which sauce he preferred with his pasta dinner (basil and marina with mushrooms of course) the Master Chief stated his last words to the pain in the ass his 2IC somehow convinced him to draft to the team. (Somehow this was all on Ray. If he hadn’t worked so hard to adopt Clay they wouldn’t have had to deal with all the kids bullshit.)

“You are done kid. Fucking done. Off Bravo. You try setting one more foot in here and Metal will make sure they never find your body.” 

Clay’s near royal blue eyes shuttered close upon hearing the edict that he had officially lost his brothers. The only people that he ever considered family. A real family. The one that gave a shit if you lived, died and everything in between. 

It wasn’t Bravo One’s emotionally eviscerating words that served to break through the pounding pulse in his nut sack. It wasn’t even the threat of becoming worm food on a forest path no one would ever find, not even with a compass, a map and a scent dog. It was the near gleeful almost joyous laugh that passed Metal’s lips.

There was a sudden rustling sound from somewhere in the room. For a split second in time Clay wondered if Metal was about to brain him. His hooded eyes watched Jason’s face as the senior former team member tracked the sound. The dangling participle meat suit could tell the exact moment the older man discerned the cause behind it. 

Not understanding what in the holy hell was going on, just sensing in her heart that her second favorite human was in danger Cerberus weaseled her way into the tight circle of Frogmen apoplectic with threadbare rage. Her low howl and Moor’s at Midnight moan the only thing that broke through the quondam brothers about to converge in a dog pile on the excommunicated one.

On sure paws the russet colored dog made it to suspended door kickers side with a click, click, click of her nails. Jason locked uneasy eyes with the Hair Missile. There was no doubt in the Philadelphia Flyers tee shirt wearers mind that the lady of fur had identified him as a threat. 

This could have fallout far beyond her siding with Clay. If she didn’t trust the team, the team couldn’t trust her. Knowing this and not wanting to exacerbate what might he surmised to be her next logical leap (towards his jugular) Jason took immediate action. 

The brown-eyed man dropped the blond whilom team member as if he were a crumpled piece of paper headed to the trash bin. (Which wasn’t all that far off.) The thud of his solid one hundred and eighty five pounds hitting the tiled floor sounded like a sack of potatoes fallen of the back of a market truck. 

Jason smiled with smug satisfaction when he saw the five foot ten bibliophile bite his lip in an effort to control the agony surging through his broken body with the speed of an RPG-7. There was a nails on the chalkboard cringe worthy chorus of sounds from the crumpled dung heap on the ground. 

A snap. If the senior service member had to guess one, maybe two ribs. A crackle. Most likely the big toe on the kids left foot. And a Rock-Ola M1 Carbine pop. That would be his right hip saying, ‘I’m out yo.’ 

With a well-practiced eye the leader scanned the floor, he didn’t see any blood, which meant they didn’t have to get a mop. ‘Thank God,’ that would have been more effort than Jason wanted to expend.

“Five minutes. You have five minutes to clear out your shit or we will burn it on a pyre,” the forty four year old enunciated each word clearly so there was no misunderstanding as to what would happen if the thirty two year old exceeded the time limit.

Fighting to regain his footing and knowing that drop snapped the last hook his hip hung on the toe head ran a hand over his side. He could feel the ichor oozing out of the laceration beneath his simple black tee shirt at the pace of a leaky facet. If there was a God or a Heaven Union rep watching this Clay asked (nee implored them) to keep the knowledge of the wound in his side obstructed from Bravo. The very last thing he needed at this point was for them to smell literal blood.

Knowing he couldn’t stand without assistance and also knowing that there was zero chance that anyone in the room (save Cerb) would lend him aid Clay crawled like man in search of salvation (which he was) over to his soon to be bygone cage. The operator supposed he should feel embarrassed or shamefaced over such a humbling act of transportation instead he accepted the kick him while he is down turtle crawl as his due for having failed his brothers. 

The rhythm of his heartbeat was wild almost frenetic akin to the Sibelius Violin Concerto in D Minor, Movement One. Putrid sweat weltered off him in fetid waves of foam. Blood and other fluid byproducts he didn’t want to lend name too were seeping out of him from various sieve like exit points as he crept along inch by sedulous inch.

Eureka. The slinking Seal though out loud in his head. He has been triumphant in his quest to reach the metal box holding his meager belongings. Praying he maintained consciousness long enough to beat the clock buzzer the Petty Officer First Class pulled himself up with a potpourri blend of sheer strength of will and well honed upper arm strength. Never could he remember being so grateful for all the reps his former best friend encouraged him to add to his workouts. 

Clay’s dulled over blue eyes low key carded around the room at the men he once considered his brothers. Not one of them from the Jason to the 2IC to the resident mortuary affairs man on loan from Alpha moved an inch. The door kickers of Bravo (and borrowed Alpha) were all just staring at him the urge to commit fratricide plain as day on their bearded faces.

With his legs as ready, steady don’t fall as they were going to be the five foot ten special warfare operator moved his lacerated hands caked in a film of dried blood (whose was anyone’s guess,) mud and splinters towards his final Bravo related tasks. The bookworm swept the giant pile of books resting on the second shelf into his Cotopaxi Volta backpack. 

From aback him he could hear the steady countdown of minutes and seconds remaining as orated by their medic Trent. Clay continued to employ his sniper breathing as he grabbed his Dopp kit from off the bottom shelf. The handmade leather toiletry bag had been a sixteenth birthday present from his grandfather. 

Resting just atop the only remaining physical connection to his grandfather was a gag gift from Sonny. A Ken Doll. The Texan never half assed when it came to gift giving. The VIP of the Champagne Room had decked out the plastic blond in the finest of battle gear (no doubt liberated from a G.I. Joe doll) complete with side arm and sniper riffle. 

Clay watched as Barbie’s main squeeze practiced his best Geronimo dismount and landed on the floor much like he had moments earlier. The recipient of the lagniappe bit back a sad laugh. He supposed there was some sort of of commentary in that he and Ken had both fallen.

Trent was nearing the final ninety seconds of his monotone time relaying. Clay reached for the few knick knacks he didn’t want destroyed in the fire he knew as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow that the boys would burn; the stuffed Seal from Lisa, the tape dispenser from Blackburn and the small unassuming bag of rocks in the little leather bag.

With tremulous fingers that highly resembled the spin cycle on a washing machine the youngest now one-time member of Bravo removed the 6B9 from his Tactical shirt that hung like a noose on the hook just to the right of his rigidly straight left shoulder. 

It was a symbolic gesture at this stage in the countdown, which according to the six foot two native of Montana was approaching fifty eight seconds. Still it needed to be done. The act illustrated beyond a shadow of any doubt that he acknowledged his excision from the team. 

There was no way he would add his Budweiser to that pile though. That they could pry from his cold dead hand. With as much grace as his ball joints would allow for Clay placed the patch face down on the ground. He barely contained the urge to step on it as a final exclamation point to the end of this chapter of his life.

With some degree of difficulty the Seal got his backpack over his stiff though lesser injured right shoulder. The one hundred and eighty five pound thirty two year old left his cage door open so Bravo’s One through Five didn’t have to go through the vexing process of picking the lock. Not that he gave a mother fuck if they were inconvenienced or not he just didn’t have the energy or the finger dexterity to try and lock it. 

On uneven feet the five foot ten special warfare operator shuffled towards the door at the blazing hot pace of a geriatric sloth on a sedative. He tossed the key in the general vicinity of the workbench and continued on his world record-breaking sprint (not) towards the metal door. Absently the man in the Chippewa boots wondered just what the team would do to him if Trent reached zero before he gained the door. He tried not to ponder the conundrum. There was no answer that would lown him at this point.

The only person on the team to provide any assistance to his progress was not even a person but a beautiful Belgian Malinois who didn’t understand why all her humans were acting like their brother was an adversary. Sensing the blond man’s disconsolate heart, seeing the wamble of his body and hearing the rasping of his increasingly labored breath the woman still outfitted in her tac vest saddled up next to the sniper matching him step for teetering step.

Clay was afraid to pet his benignant traveling companion thinking Brock might just kill him for taking such liberties with his special lady, but one look in her sad soulful eyes and the gangled Petty Officer relented. The two hundred and ten pound Jeopardy clock just hit zero and he was at the door anyway. 

“Bye girl,” Clay whispered almost aphonicaly. He ran a gentle though clearly and most visibly trembling hand down her snout. She licked his fingers gently. His blue eyes tried to memorize her beautiful face. The exiting Seal mouthed ‘I love you’ to Cerb and stepped out into the hall. 

Clay could hear Bravo’s battle cry's as the leaden door closed behind him with a click that signaled the finality of what just occurred. There was no doubt in his mind, in any of the languages he spoke that they were tearing his remaining items to pieces to be used as kindling at the BBQ tonight.

He stared without registering the activity in the passageway. People scurried past him in an effort to complete their checklists of things to do; save the world, blow shit up and have a good time doing it. 

The Petty Officer had one more task to complete before he could hole up and lick his wounds. Or more aptly pass out in a drunken stupor. Of course as Clay would soon learn, just because you make plans it doesn’t mean you get to keep them.

February 8, 2020 ~ House of Ash Spencer ~ 2:06AM

The toe bopping beat of Kenny Loggins The Danger Zone rang out in the bathypelagic bedroom. Ash bolted straight up off the mattress like a Jack-in-the-box. The clock on the nightstand read 2:06AM in deep blue neon. In the time it took the former Seal to halt the ‘shovin’ into overdrive’ the numbers flipped over to 2:07AM.

Whenever a door kicker active or not received a call when dark still rent the sky it was never a good sign. Out of years of conditioning you always apostiled the time. The soporose man had a friend in hospice so he reasoned this was the call informing him the old warrior had gone to Gilme. 

Instead the senior Spenser watched the floating head of Eric Blackburn flash across his screen. The very fact that his former teammate was ringing him this far after the witching hour indicated this call could and sadly most likely would be about his son. 

The recently woken author hadn’t been able to contain the strangled cry that escaped his lips. Nor had he been successful in his ability to halt the shaking his body gave way too. With a dolor heart and unsteady fingers Ash pressed answer on his black IPhone. 

Born out of decades of familiarity with each other the native Georgian commenced the call without preamble, “he ain’t dead yet, so breathe.” 

Knowing the man on the other end of the phone as well as he did the Bravo Commanding Officer waited a beat and then added his lilt filled to the brim with compassion, “breathe brother, breathe.” 

Ash did exactly as his old friend bid and took in a fluctuant breath. His boy was alive and that was what was important at the moment. The father continued to take in one calming breath after another until he could feel his capricious heart rate recede back into regular sinus rhythm. 

Eric took a settling breath of his own. It wasn’t that making a call to Ash about an injury or God forbid the passing of his son wasn’t a possibility. They were ALL operators. They were ALL cognizant of the risks of their callings. Still that didn’t make burying your dead any easier.

When the all ready in route to the hospital serviceman was certain his brother in arms was able to listen and digest the information he was to impart not just hear him the caller set about sharing the pertinent details in true Blackburn bullet point fashion.

¥ Clay had been found in the Command parking lot near frozen through, teetering on the precipice edge of the here and what lay beyond. 

¥ The operator’s body was collapsed in a heap of bone and blood against his inherited Chevy Nova. His green jacket melded into the cars doorframe like a married couple on a honeymoon. 

¥ His shredded fist frozen against the ground as if he had tried to prop maybe even push himself up. Which highlighted that he raged against the dying of the light.

¥ The thirty two year olds phone lay a frozen block of electronic ice in his lap. He had been trying to reach out for help. He just hadn’t been able to complete the transaction.

Ash had not missed the susurrated, “your name was on the screen.”

That tidbit of information caused a volcano of emotion to erupt inside the parent. There is nothing that Ash wouldn’t do for Clay. He had and would go to the end of this earth and whatever lay beyond in service of his boy. It never occurred to him not even for an iota of a second that Clay believed this immutable fact to be true. 

Reaching out to his asshole father would be a pis aller for the toe head. That spoke volumes about the severity of the situation that brought about this life altering call. It meant that Clay hadn’t just had a slip and fall. Or he hadn’t hidden an injury that got the best of him. It meant that Bravo and that smug bastard Sonny Quinn had forsaken their beloved Bravo Six. 

Ash punched the speaker button on his phone as he moved towards the whitewashed dresser of his youth at the foot of the bed. He ran a hand over his face before resting it against his mouth in an effort to halt the diatribe of words that threaten to escape. Now was not the time for recrimination and interrogation. 

Eric gripped the steering wheel till his knuckles turned an eerie shade of alabaster. He knew full well and good the assiduity he brother was employing not to detonate like M18 Claymore mine. Ash might not be known for his ability to express emotions. Didn’t mean he didn’t have them. Ash loved two people in the world. He was talking to one and worrying that he wouldn’t be able to make things right with the other.

The five foot nine Southerner continued with his explanations. Through video surveillance, personnel confirmation and expert paramedic guestimation is was surmised that the man formally known as Bravo Six had been practicing his best snowman interpretation for well over an hour. 

It was only but for the grace of God that Clay had parked near the support crew end of the lot before going wheels up. Because of this stroke of fate his near submerged Chippewa’s had been seen out of the corner of Mad Devil’s (one of their civilian analysts that worked at the Command) eye.

The parent bit his lip till it bled. He worked to reign in the lethal tidal wave of Kill them All rushing through his veins. With jerked movements he tied the laces on his Thursday Boot Company brown Presidents. The second he completed the necessary bunny lopping he rose from the bed with a calm that would have scared the shit right out of Bravo and snagged his phone from its haphazard resting place affront the clock that read 2:17AM. 

As the homeowner exited his bedroom towards the hall closet he sent a prayer of thanks to that God his buddy just mentioned. He made sure to add words of appreciation to the Mad Devil for spotting Clay and the fugly footwear he was so fond of wearing. If it weren’t for this Devil’s peripheral vision… 

Temperatures tonight were a skint fifteen degrees. By all rights his son should be communing with angels and saints. The father steadfastly refused to believe that his son would go anywhere in the afterlife that wasn’t the promise of peace he earned. 

Eric was still talking as the man shrugged into flannel over shirt. Layering on a night such as this way important. His brown eyes closed for a moment of silent contemplation. How many layers had Clay had on? 

“Mad called the paramedics right away. Then called me.” The fifty five year old took a cleansing breath of heated air. 

“At no time after he was found was Clay alone Ash…” 

The drivers voice faded off into the distance as the parent took a moment to rest his head in his hands. Ash knew what those ten words really meant. He bit the inside of cheek to halt unnecessary commentary. 

“…Mad stayed with him. Moving away from him only after the EMT’s started working on diffusing his body from the door frame.” 

(The dichotomy of the flames that decorated the door and his son’s rime bones was not lost on him.) 

“Mad held vigil till he left in the bus.” Eric needed his brother to know that Clay had not been alone. That if the Good Lord had seen fit to call him home, his soul wouldn’t have entered Valhalla without someone to care for his corporeal body. 

“They got him to base medical with all possible haste. Once there they cut his wet clothes off.” The words seemed to float from his lips like a he was a hardened news reporter instead of a concerned commanding officer. The driver took a sip of cold coffee while he waited impatiently at a stoplight. 

“He was immediately placed beneath heated blankets. They fitted warm compresses into all the major points and a bolus of warmed saline started the second they could access a vein.”

“Once they employed all the standard combat hypothermia measures they set about assessing his other injuries.” 

It was those two little words, ‘other injuries’ that made the listeners nuts twist beneath his recently donned jeans. In an effort to release the build up of pressure behind the steam valve of fury coursing through his body the quinquagenarian cracked his knuckles. It was that or he was going to punch something. At present the only available sparing partner was a wall. The seasoned operator felt his face slip into the memento mori of waiting retribution. 

“Other injuries?” Ash catechized coolly. 

The senior Spencer’s voice maintained such an even tempo that the Georgian knew his old friend was ready to murder someone. He might not be a young whippersnapper like Clay but Ash was still very much capable of illustrating in painful detail just how violent a nomad he was.

The five foot nine black Dodge Ram owner sighed out “Yeah Ash…” 

“Other injuries…” Eric’s voice cracked on the last word. 

It was the bone crushing sigh and the hitch in his Southern lilt that gave the father pause. He knew that hitch. As hard as it was. Ash stilled himself. He trusted Eric beyond any shadow of any doubt. Now was the time to honor the fidelity. 

Instead of rattling off all the questions running around in his mind like headless chickens he secured his keys from the little lopsided with a nick along the base blue bowl on the kitchen island. Pausing only for a second to run his scarred index finger over the gash. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind blue eyes twinkled over the rim at him.

With military precision the man on a mission turned an about face to liberate his antiquated Navy pea coat from another time and another life off his coat rack in the mudroom. His brown eyes zeroed in on the missing button. The coat owner could have replaced it many times over. Yet he didn’t. He left it as a reminder to himself about how sometimes life just fucks you in the ass.

Eric shuttered the blinds on his tired eyes. Ash was illustrating in ways words weren’t needed that he had faith in him. He was humbled to his rotted core. 

He softened his voice as he continued on. “Once he was stable they transferred him to Portsmouth because on top of the thousand and one cuts, bruises and burns he sustained…” 

Now that he had an intended destination Ash worked the alarm as he exited his farmhouse. The wind cut at him like swinging machete blades. The retired Senior Chief could feel the sideways sky confetti as it tickled his lashes. He punched at the sky with a closed first.

The snow gathered along the walk was a stark white reminder of what his child had been resting in earlier in the evening. ‘A thousand and one cuts, bruises and burns.’ While it sounded scary this was not an abnormal trio of maladies for an operator. It only became terrifying when it served to be the foundation on which Clay’s snowman was built. 

With a steady hand he unlocked the door to his old 1980 Chevy C-10. The five foot eleven former Black Squadron member alighted into the pickup with the grace born a dancer on stage with the New York City Ballet. 

Ash keyed the ignition listening to the talkative silence of the open phone line. He waited for his old girl to warm up and purr so he could head out onto the open road towards the Naval Medical Center in Portsmouth. Out of years of training his eyes scanned the landscape aback the truck for ghosts real or imagined.

The driver already in route to the fallen former Bravo Six chewed on his lower lip before he continued explaining to one of the only people in this world or the next he truly trusted his life with the injury that would cause the most reck in the parents contemplation. 

“It was discovered he had a traumatic dislocation of the hip.” 

Eric Blackburn rattled this information out with equally parts speed and regret. He could hear the dint of the silence radiating from friend through the phone. Normally if an operator sustained a hip injury it was a stress fracture or a labrum tear. Your sack hurts, they pump you full of grunt candy and sometimes they do a little shave and pave.

Hip dislocation was a different kind of trauma. Not that Tier One operators were immune to dislocations. It was just that coupled with the fact his son was found without his pack frozen in the snow and ice. Ash was a great many things, stupid wasn’t one of them. The fact that Eric hadn’t mentioned Bravo read like a billboard ad for FUBAR.

There was a bevy of things the fifty five year old brother needed to tell the father heading to his son’s bedside. There was no way he would keep all the information garnered from the man who saved his life in so many more ways than on the field. But the elucidation of the Bravo split and what happened to Clay as a result needed to occur in person. 

The taciturn ghost of the original AFO of DEVGRU maintained his unnerving quiet. What was it the refrigerator magnet said, ‘silence is a most powerful scream?’ The hazel eyed man in his black Dodge Ram knew his mind had wandered when he heard a throat clear from the other end of the phone.

“Listen Abigail. I’m on my way.” 

Eric felt a clonus deep in his gut at the use of the old nick name before his brother issued what they both knew was a do it or we are done warning. 

“And you will be too.” 

There was a just before the ball falls in Time Square on New Years Eve pause then, “most riki-tik.” 

Ash disconnected the call. He needed time to rage against the world, to scream out all the wroth bottled up inside him like a geyser waiting to blow. 

Why had Clay been leaving the building so late in the first place? Hadn’t they return from their spin HOURS earlier? Why in the holy mother fuck was he alone? Where were the Bastards of Bravo? 

Was he jumped by a pack of shit bags in the parking lot? (The tape would have offered that for Eric’s viewing wouldn’t it?) His son was a scraper he fought like demons fucked, hard and dirty. Even a mantis ass punch wouldn’t have been enough to incapacitate him. 

Not for the first time since Kenny Loggins woke him from his slumber did he wonder what in the mother hell happened to his son. Ash ground his back teeth. His mind was spinning like a hamster on crack.

NOTHING would stop him from finding out the answers to these questions. NOTHING. And may God show clemency to the souls that tried to keep him from them. Because if there was one thing he could promise at this point, he sure as fuck would not.

The father stopped at nothing to get to the Naval Medical Center in Portsmouth, not even stoplights. It had taken an agonizing forty minutes to reach the parking lot and another four to enter the building and secure what little information he could on his only child. 

What little being, “yes sir he is here.”

February 8, 2020 ~ Naval Medical Center Portsmouth, Waiting Room ~ 5:16AM

Somewhere overhead the tick, tick, tick of a clock could be heard. Farther off in the distance a cacophony of alarms, bells and whistles sounded. Down a reminiscent of the Shining hallway the screams of the damned cried out. And yet all the father heard was the static silence of the in between. 

Ashland Kane Spencer sat perched on the edge of the worn plastic chair in the military hospital waiting room. If the five foot eleven retired Senior Chief shifted his lithe frame more than a millimeter any which way a creak that should be background sound to a horror movie screeched from the cracked seat below him. 

Dimming lights flickered in the ceiling above with an almost methodical one, two, out, one, two, out and repeat. The heavy chlorine smell of bleach and the stomaching turning odor of imitation lemon all-purpose cleaner permeated the sitter’s nostrils as he waited for so many things. 

Eric to bring back some much needed coffee from the cafeteria. 

ANY word about his boy no matter how small. With ever tick of that infernal clock the timer on the TNT of his soul edged closer to explosion time. 

Divine Intervention from God. 

Ash was open to any and all of the above.

The former member of Black Squadron sat in a holding pattern (something you got good at as an operator whether you wanted to or not.) His mind racing and yet stagnant all at one time. All thoughts led to Clay Ansel Spencer. The kid with a passion for reading dictionaries and encyclopedias (the one positive trait he passed onto him) who meant the absolute world to him. 

The Maryland native remembered clear the day he found out he was to be a parent. He called the man on the java search. Because who else did he have to call? Eric had crawled into the darkened closet with him. His brother never said a word just lent his quiet strength.

Ash’s mind simply could not draw a linear line from what happened that night with Oriana to the subsequent news of impending fatherhood.   
The boy somewhere in a room in this ugly hospital pray God would never come to learn the backstory of how he came into this world. 

Flashes of that night played on the slide show projector in the gray-haired man’s head like the disjecta membra at the end of a kaleidoscope. Ash had no idea how Clay would process that information. Because in all honesty thirty two years later Ash still hadn’t. 

The ugliness of the act didn’t detract a scintilla from the love he had for his son. The father knew from the moment Clay curled his itty bitty newborn fingers into his It Wasn’t Earned to be Burned moss green shirt and rested his almost bald little baby head against his heart that he loved the ten pounds of bouncing energy with ever single fiber of his being. 

Ash with a tightening in his sack knew that Clay might never believe that his father gave two fucks about him. Much less loved him beyond all measure. This was in great part because the parent didn’t have the emotional tool set to provide healthy expressions of love. It didn’t mean he didn’t try, it just meant more often than not he didn’t succeed.

Him being here in the waiting room of doom was his way of trying. The progenitor knew in his well hidden behind many layers of tough guy bravado and many times over broken heart that his wonderful amazing obstinate pain in the ass son wouldn’t want the father he didn’t believe loved him to know he was injured, much less come to see him. Clay could take the inherited Stubborn Spencer Pride to extreme levels.

“Don’t start showing up now Ash.” 

The former operator swallowed down hard to clear the rocks that suddenly littered the path of his throat as he replayed the exact words from the phone call with his strong willed son during the kids first extended stay here in the bland, sterile meat locker cold Naval Medical Center.

Ash was well aware that smart mouth biting sarcasm default was a defense mechanism to protect Clay from displaying just how hurt he was. Stubborn Spencer pride in all its resplendent glory. With an audible grunt of pain the parent whisper one word into the EMPTY room. 

“Maybe.”

Maybe one day he and the only person he ever loved unconditionally could sit and talk. Maybe when the flames of anger burned through Clay’s soul dampened. When calmness had overtaken his storm-ravaged landscape. 

Maybe. 

And maybe Ash would learn to tap dance. At least there were lessons for dancing.

When the toe head was sent home from the bombing in Manila he wanted to be left alone. Still just because the ornery Mr. I Can Do It Alone hadn’t wanted his sperm donor to show up didn’t mean the father hadn’t. It just meant that Don’t Start Showing Up Now Ash had not apprised his son of the clandestine visits. 

The retired Seal might be older now, but it didn’t make him any less adept at infiltrating places where he was not wanted. The seasoned door kicker lost count of the amount of nights he would sneak onto his parent’s compound in Liberia just to watch the steady rise and fall of his growing kids chest. 

Momentarily forgetting the screeches of agony the chair would provide the fifty six soon to be seven year old ran his hands through his growing locks. (The project he was working on at the present required his gray hair to be long.) He brought his callous digits over his face as he let out a sigh that was more anguish than exhaustion. 

Clay had been in there for HOURS. How long did it take to repair a hip? Were the thousand and one cuts, bruises and burns he sustained delaying an update? The waiting was chipping away at the wall of sanity that shored up his heart.

The half-ding half discordant caw of the elevator refocused Ash’s attention to the opening doors. His brown eyes took in lumbering steps of his closest friend. Under the harsh lighting afforded them in this soul sucking room he could see how deep the bruises below the hazel of Eric’s eyes were.

The runner up in the Wet Tee Shirt Contest of the 1989 OCONUS Challenge could see the winner was chomping furiously at his lower lip. The brother knew this was something the Georgian did when he was mulling over a challenge. 

The author of The Man Behind the Myth reached out to receive what the hospital considered coffee from the proffering hand of the man with caved in shoulders and slight Southern accent. Oil swill found their stomachs as each man let out a moan and a groan.

It was as they were about to take a second that Dr. Nick Cervantes the Teams doctor snuck the doors that bared anyone who wasn’t AUTHORIZED PERSONEL from entering. 

Before either former member of Black Squadron could jack their beanstalks the doctor held out a stay in place hand. The older gentleman eased down into the torture devices the hospital called a chair directly across from the worried waiters. 

Dr. Cervantes blatantly disregarded the Bravo Team CO. The physician focused all his attention on Ash. It was as if the commanding officer wasn’t even in the room. Neither brother commented on the obvious slight. 

As far as Eric was concerned the man in the blue scrubs (sans white coat) could ignore him till the cows came home and then returned to pasture as long as he told the duo that the young man he had know since the day he was born would live to fight another day.

“We have successfully elevated his temperature.” 

Nick wasted no time in easing the fears of the father. The former Frogman didn’t realize how much adrenaline had been pounding though his system until the relief upon hearing that Clay was alive surged through his body like a tidal wave. Ash was suddenly grateful to the flimsy recycled cup in his hands. Gripping it allowed for him to hide the shaking.

“We have sutured the open wound near his left vertebral rib. As well as one the near his extensor digitorum…” 

The doctors voice faded off as a gasp came from the man he was cold-shouldering. It appeared to all three military men in the uncomfortable plastic chairs designed for pigmy’s that the man supposedly in charge of the Ball Busters of Bravo had no prior knowledge of those particular serious injuries to the five foot ten operator currently in recovery.

The tension in the air increased to redline at the continued absence of ambient audible sound from gray-haired father in the old military issued coat. Nick was aware the relationship between the two Spenser’s wasn’t the best, but decades on earth illustrated time and again what a broken parents face looked like. Even one working well to hide it.

The former Senior Chief blinked away the emotion threatening to expose his level of worry. Dr. Cervantes made eye contact with the senior Spenser waiting for his ok to continue. The barest hint of a head incline was all the conformation he needed. 

“Bruises and abrasions cover a fair 70% of his body…” 

Nick’s green eyes with flecks of gold scanned the man across from him. The natural warfighter response to words such as those would be spontaneous eruption not unlike a depined grenade. Apparently not today. Ash continued with his uneasy tacit listening.

“He had several burn marks along the base of spine where the lumbar and the sacral meet. They were not severe enough to require graphs and there was NO spinal damage.” 

It was the mention of the words ‘NO spinal damage that served to break the father from his stoicism. There was only one word the doctor could think to describe the look that crossed the other mans face. Feral.

Ash felt his entire body inspissate. The words bruises and abrasions on over 70% of his body and NO spinal damage charged through the neuropath ways in his head. Had Tangos converged on a solitary sniper imbedded on a hill?

Or had those scum sucking pieces of shit at Bravo dog piled one of their own? The parent locked eyes with his sons CO. He pointedly looked around the room where Clays brothers should be and clearly were not. 

Ash brought his gaze level with the only man who had never, not once betrayed his trust. The physician watched the aphonic communication. These were two people who were so in tune with each other that words ceased to be needed. 

Though in all honesty the doctor needn’t be part of the brotherhood to understand the conclusion the parent came to and the subsequent question he asked his friend.

If scuttlebutt was to be believed the Petty Officer was a frog without a pad to return too. The fact (as the father pointed out with his head on a swivel) that Bravo was NOT in the waiting room enforced this notion more than any high school type gossip running around the halls.

Dr. Cervantes liked Clay. A great deal. The thirty year old didn’t always heed caution. He was more than a little rough around the edges when it came to positive reinforcement. That being said the kid had more character and probity than any other operator he had met. 

Hoping in part to dispel the malevolent energy that hung in the air like Napalm the Team doctor offered what little positive encouragement he could about the curly haired blond with the wooly mammoth beard.

“Clay came through the surgery with no complications. The repairs were successful. With the right follow up care and expert rehab there is NO medical reason Clay won’t be able to return to operational status. However…” 

Nick let the final word run off at the tension that snapped through the waiters across from him as if they had been impaled by hot pokers. It would seem that while there wouldn’t be any longer term physical effect that would hinder a return there might be a great many others. That was for the Bravo CO to wade through. 

“However?” Ash ground out.

“However. I am certain you are aware of your son’s tendency to ignore and override.” The medical professional quickly talked on, when the parent only raised a flippant eyebrow (loosely translating to No Shit Sherlock.) 

With no small amount of adamancy he explained that Clay was going to need to “FOLLOW instructions on not over doing it.” 

Advice he had not heeded after his previous surgery. (Ash was shocked, comma not at all.) 

“Ignoring the instructions this time could further weaken the already destabilized platform of his leg. Culminating in disastrous results.” 

The sawbones took a deep breath and kept going.

“To use another Frogman idiom, Slow is Smooth, Smooth is Fast. Essentially gentleman Clay will need to rehab at a pace the MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS set out. NOT at a pace he thinks appropriate.”

Nick nodded to indicate he had completed his transmission. His eyes as watched Ash grip the coffee cup is if it were a life raft. The father needed to see with his own eyes that his boy was still among the living and breathing. 

The doctor stood up and stretched his aching muscles before saying he would “return most expediently to show him to Clay’s room.” 

The Bravo Commanding Officer found his mind was fustigating with the speed of F4 tornado set to ravage all in its path. He worked to absorb all the information that had been relayed about the Petty Officer’s (and his oldest friends son) injuries. It would appear that large sections of information had been left out of the AAR for the mission.

A mere fifteen minutes later Dr. Cervantes returned attired in recently donned scrubs and clutching a steaming hot cup of what look like piss water or the weakest version of Lipton tea ever to grace a paper cup. With an open arm gesture the doctor indicated the waiting men (plural) should follow him.

February 8, 2020 ~ Naval Medical Center Portsmouth, Room 412 ~ 7:47AM

Before the physician opened the door where the five foot ten special warfare operator lay he cautioned the waiting parent that the young man whose striking blue eyes he most desperately wanted to see would most likely be unconscious till later in the day. 

And that for now like that movie theatre slogan, ‘silence was golden.’ Not that Nick really worried about Ash over talking, the man had said very little during his explanations. He only nodded his graying hair bouncing under the constant waves of air puffed out through the vent in above his seat. 

The father skirted his brown eyes over the prone body of his sleeping son. Bruises littered every single available surface the thirty two year old had to offer for viewing. The former pipe hitter felt his hands curl into fists before he forced them open. 

Praying to whatever deity would listen that the wounds he sustained wouldn’t be as gruesome as they sounded the parent inched the sheet and blanket down to just above his son’s private area. Then with great care and such gentleness that Eric felt a lump in his throat Ash inched the hospital gown up to take in all the cotton layers had obstructed. 

Neither man could contain the shutters that racked their bodies as if they were boats crashing into the shoreline rocks during a squall. The Bravo Team CO supposed in some respect this situation qualified as a storm. The fifty six year old glanced over at his friend and for the first time in their long associated he wanted to pummel the man’s face in.

Not for the first time did Ash wonder what in the mother fuck had occurred on their last spin up to see his son so bruised and broken. To see his body was so covered in colors and swirls that the alabaster of his skin seemed foreign. 

He was inching the flimsy gown back down when he spied an outline of a 5.11 tactical boot on his son’s abdomen. The former operator felt his stomach bottom out and his blood boil as if a kettle on overdrive. The imprint left no doubt that this state of affairs was brought on by Bravo.

His brown eyes jumped across the bed landing on a man he had known more than half his life. He nodded down towards the torso of his prone son where someone had sliced between his ribs like he was a loaf of bread. Eric shivered and not from the cold. 

The CO’s hazel eyes scrutinized every available to the eye inch of the inconscient body before him. The mission for all that he knew had seemingly been sucessful. The boys had done their intial AAR with zero of the normal shennanigans, malarkiness and tomfoolery which was rare but not unheard of. 

Instead of rucking out in his hammock the kid had rolled and stowed it opting instead to slide between two secured pallets, where he spent the remainder of the ride home wedged staring without seeing into the void. It was disconcerting, but given that each of the men seemed to be processing the events of the night in their own way not all that alarming. If only he had spent more time with bibliophile.

The mid level officer mulled over Bravo’s walk to their cages. Everyone had been on top of each other except for Clay. He had been shuffling a noticeable few feet behind. That in and of itself was not rare; especially when the young sniper had encountered the kill count he had that night.

As was customary they would have grab their belongs from the cages and headed off to their respective destinations, to meet up later for a needed restorative BBQ. Only that isn’t what happened. Not even close. 

Clay had emerged from the sanctum sanctorum of Bravo and gone without stopping to collect $200 straight to see Lindell. The Petty Officer explained to the Captain that he felt it in the best interest of the Bravo that he be reassigned. 

It was up to Lindell whether it be to another Team. Which the sniper acknowledged he knew was a long shot. Maybe he could ride a desk in a support capacity. Or if that lesser blow of an option wasn’t available he would return to the regular Navy until his enlistment ran out. His only request was that he not be sent to the Philippines.

Espying the limp and the unconscious cradling his side the older man bid Clay to seek medical assistance. They would discuss reassignment of duties after he had been tended too. Eric didn’t think the circuitous route Clay took to that help was what the Captain had in mind. Still at this point the fact he received it was what was important.

Seconds after the kid left Lindell’s office the senior officer called in the Bravo Team CO. He wanted answers on what in the mother hell had happened to bring such a shining star Seal to the point where he would voluntarily stop door kicking. 

Post his conversation with Lindell Eric headed off to the room at the end of hall to find the youngest (and apparently former) member’s cage decimated as if an IED detonated in the small space. Only his military issued gear and a mangled Barbie Doll remained. 

He went onto learn after an extremely stunted conversation with Jason that any personal belongings Clay had not been able to fit into the backpack found scrunched under his snow prone body were liberated by Bravo and burned at the fire circle later that night.

Oblivious to the thoughts summersaulting through the man standing on the other side of the beds mind, Ash rested a hand on his son’s forehead before sweeping the curls out of his eyes. The father smiled sadly as a memory found its way to the forefront of his mind. 

Clay had been four and three days. The boys love affair with words had started early in life and as such he gifted the toe head with a dictionary for his birthday a few days previous. He liked to think his son still had that treasure among his belongings, even if it was hidden in a slick somewhere in his apartment.

It was a nice day out so they were reading from it while lounging on the deck. The kid loved it out there. Told him he liked the feeling of open. Ash understood exactly what the pipsqueak meant. He didn’t feel confined. 

The wind had picked up as the sun was closing down over the horizon. The air ruffled their curls at the same time. The four year old (and three days) had pointed to his hair and then to his fathers giggling. 

Ash gently stroked through the inherited unruly locks as he replayed that carefree giggle over in in his head.

The famed author was regaining his hand when he saw the swelling in Clay’s jaw. His fingers inched down towards that stubborn Spencer chin and whispered through the full beard. Only then did the heavy bruising become apparent. As if a black eye near to closing and a busted nose that actually had to be reset wasn’t enough. 

He felt his son stir and nodded towards the exit to Eric. The five foot eleven father didn’t want to leave but he knew he wasn’t wanted. And the last thing he wanted was the kid to wake up to his ugly unwanted mug. 

The Black Squadron duo made the door. Quiet as quiet could be the seasoned operators snuck out of the room with the occupant none the wiser. Ash worked to process all he wanted to and need to say in a way that would not permanently end the oldest and near only friendship he maintained. 

Seeing his chance the five foot nine Southerner opened his mouth to speak. Ash held his hand up causing his coat sleeve to slide down. This exposed the vertical scar along his wrist. Hazel eyes locked on the reminder of a long ago time. He instantly halted any further attempt at discourse.

“We will speak of this later. I wish to sit with him while I can.” 

The friend watched the father’s shoulders cave in on themselves, he took in the absent way the man itched at his wrist and the flush that crept up his neck. There is near nothing he wouldn’t do for Ash and providing him time seemed the very least he could do. He squeezed his brother’s shoulder and headed towards the stairs. He just couldn’t spend one more ride in that infernal moving box.

The parent sat to the right of his boy’s bed listening to all the sounds that indicated he was still breathing. Limiting his touches to rubbing the hand that wasn’t covered in medical paraphernalia when it seemed the thirty two year old was amidst a bête noire. Only stepping out for the nurses and their checks. 

When the doctors came round in the mid afternoon Ash took that as his cue to beat feet. Doctors meant the nurses evinced whatever signs they saw that the polyglot was near to waking. The father made it all the way through the room with the torture devices (chairs) before he heard his name called, “Mr. Spencer, a moment please.”

Dr. Cervantes was finally heading home after staying to monitor Clay and his vitals. As well as, to tete a tete with Lucas the Team’s physical therapist and inquire as to whether he would feel confortable working with the sniper to heal up his hip. The therapist had extensive working knowledge of Clay, how his body moved and his mind processed. And most importantly the young operator trusted the man.

Lucas was a person of unfailing integrity. He readily agreed to work with the former Bravo Six. Even going so far as to say he would do it outside regular hours to accommodate the Petty Officer if he didn’t want to be near other operators. 

No one understood what shook Bravo or what caused the young man to walk away from the Team and possibly Teams. All they had to go on were the multitude of injuries that littered the thirty two year olds one hundred and eighty five five foot ten frame.

The physician alerted the parent whose anguish was near tangible that his son was going to require assistance in the everyday tasks until he reached a plateau in his physical healing. He paused then added he would also need some “help.” 

Ash nodded his understanding to Dr. Cervantes. He thanked the man for tending to his son in ways he couldn’t. And for allowing him not only to see his son but sit with him. It wasn’t a secret that they were not on the best of terms. The kindness the doctor afforded him was humbling.

The doctor’s phone sounded from his pocket. Ash wished him a good day as he turned back towards the stairwell that Eric had headed down. No matter how much he wished his son would allow him to “help” him. He knew the kid would never ever even consider such a notion. He also knew if somehow the world turned even more on its axis and Clay did agree to such parental assistance he wasn’t the right person to offer it.

The former special warfare operator slipped his phone from his pea coat with the missing button and the frayed right pocket. He scrolled through the list of names till he happened upon the one he had been searching for. 

Markers were bond in their world. They didn’t have an expiration date. They didn’t come with parameters. They were a debt to be repaid. Ash never called a single one in. It just wasn’t his way.

The Maryland native listened as the phone rang. There was a slight silence that informed him someone had answered. Before the person could lend voice to air, Ash did only saying four words, “I need your help.”

The voice on the other end of the line replied with only three, “whatever you need.”


End file.
